


To Save You Is To Save Me

by SleuthingSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Crime Scenes, Destiny, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fate & Destiny, Graphic Mentions of Blood, Idiots in Love, Irene Adler - Freeform, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, John Has Feelings, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mild Gore, Monsters, No Mary Morstan, Original Character Destiny, POV John Watson, Past Character Death, Past Character Death is Sherlock Actually Dying When he Jumped Off The Roof, Past Dead Sherlock, Saving Sherlock, Screwed Timelines, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Doesn't Fake His Death, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slow Burn, Some Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Creatures, Third Person POV, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleuthingSherlock/pseuds/SleuthingSherlock
Summary: The moment Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's, John Watson's life changed for the worse. Losing his best friend, John felt that he would never be the same again without the eccentric detective by his side. Six months pass and John Watson has no idea that his life would change drastically for the second time. Through an accidental meeting, John meets a woman claiming to be Destiny/Fate itself.She offers John the impossible: A chance to change the fate of Sherlock Holmes.With a time limit to save Sherlock from his untimely death, John Watson must change the course of the timelines and face the dangers that lurk in the shadows, which come from messing with time itself.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	1. A Meeting With Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, thanks for clicking on my story. I have been in the Sherlock fandom for quite a long time, but this is my first time writing and publishing a story for this fandom. Updates will probably be pretty slow because I'm bad at updating and I get writer's block often unless inspiration strikes me, plus I'm pretty busy with college and work. 
> 
> So I really wanted to create a story with some sort of supernatural elements (such as time travel and Non-human deities such as Destiny) in the Sherlock world because Sherlock usually only deals with logic, reasoning, and factual things, so I thought it would be challenging and fun to write about. This story is going to be mainly from John Watson's POV. I have a pretty good idea about where I want to go with this story, but knowing me, that may change. Have fun reading and feel free to tell me what you think of the story! Please be kind though.
> 
> I may accidentally misinterpret how to write both Sherlock, John and many of the other characters, so please refrain from telling me they are out of character. It's been a hot minute since I've seen the entire show of Sherlock and, trust me, the only thing I want to do is write Sherlock & the others correctly and be able to do them justice! 
> 
> Also, I should mention I am American, so I will also probably get British lingo incorrect/British things incorrect. Forgive me if I do I haven't ever been to Britain. 
> 
> Music that inspired me:  
> stuff we did (married life) slowed down + reverb  
> H2O - Just Add Water OST - (04/15) Will Comforts Cleo
> 
> Image from: cette-coquette.tumblr.com, If you are the artist of the image, please let me know so I can credit you properly (: 
> 
> I don't own Sherlock, All rights are reserved to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is for pure entertainment purposes.

Six months. It had been six long, depressing months since it happened. _The Fall._ Six long months since John Watson’s entire life had changed within seconds. Six long, lonely, and dark months since Sherlock had taken his own life and jumped from the roof of Bart’s. The worst part was not even knowing the real truth behind why he did it. John would never forget the words Sherlock had said to him. _It’s a trick. A magic trick._ They haunted him, made him rethink everything about his flatmate and the man he came to believe was the most incredible person he would ever come across. He often found himself rethinking the many cases they solved and trying to figure out how Sherlock would have even faked any of it. He always concluded that it was not fake. It wasn’t a _trick_. Nothing that came from Sherlock was fake. Everything he did and said was logical, correct, quick, exhilarating, and most of all, _true_. He uncovered the truths that people wanted to keep hidden. Exposed them for who they were and it was all so _real_. 

John promised himself that he would never again doubt who Sherlock was and his intelligent mind. He would never again question if it was all fake because it wasn’t. He just simply would not believe that _lie_. 

John still lived at 221B Baker Street but it was painful to see Sherlock in everything around the flat. There were times John considered moving because he just couldn’t take waking up another morning and not seeing a mop of black curls and the swish of a silk blue robe lying somewhere around the flat or sitting at the table with some ghastly experiment going on, however, John also couldn’t see himself anywhere else in the world. Plus, Mrs. Hudson would hate to see him go. 

John regularly saw a therapist. He needed to. For his own sake. She helped him a bit. Helped him think clearly when things became too much at times. He saw her weekly; every Tuesday at ten in the morning. It was a nice routine he had become accustomed to. It helped him get through the week and through the days that seemed to go on and on and on. Seeing a therapist helped him get through the bad days and, _oh_ , there were so many of those. 

There were so many nights where John would sit on his bed and stare at the handgun he kept at his bedside and contemplate if he would see his best friend again if he just pulled the trigger. If pulling the trigger would stop the tears flowing down his cheeks and stop the pain slowly eating away at his heart. But, then he would set the gun aside and weep into his palms until he fell asleep on a tear-stained pillow. 

Then there were nights that John talked to Sherlock. Many nights. He didn’t know if Sherlock would ever actually hear what he was saying as John wasn’t even sure of an afterlife, but he did it nonetheless. He would tell Sherlock about what was going on at Scotland Yard and sometimes even about his day. On his particularly low nights, John would tell Sherlock all the things he wished he could have told him when he was alive. He tells him how much he missed him and how much Sherlock meant to him. Most of all, John tells Sherlock just how much he had impacted his life and how Sherlock had _saved_ him. John tells Sherlock he wishes he could have saved him as well. 

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” John questioned, his voice soft and on the verge of cracking, “We...we could have worked something out...I mean…” and then his voice would trail off and tears would slip down his cheeks. John never thought he would cry so much in his life than he had in the past six months. 

John didn’t want to tell his therapist about his nightly talks or prayers or whatever it is that he does when he speaks to Sherlock alone in his room at night, but during one of his weekly sessions it slipped out. 

“I talk to him sometimes” a pause, “or pray...whatever you wanna call it.” 

His therapist cocked her head at him and shifted in her seat. She doesn’t have any particular look on her face, so John feels a little bit at ease. 

“I don’t know anything about an afterlife...or if he hears me...but...I just do it.” 

“And what do you talk to him about?” Her brow creases and John knows that she is feeling sympathetic to him. He doesn’t mind it. However, it felt like a violation to tell her what he talks to Sherlock about. It was between him and Sherlock. Not her. 

“Mostly about my day. Sometimes about a murder or crime committed that is reported in the paper. I ask him how fast he thinks he could solve it if he were here. Of course, he doesn’t respond,” John clarifies, just-in-case, his therapist was on the verge of prescribing pills for him to take. 

“Anything else?” 

John knew what she wanted him to say. He’d never said it to anyone else besides the walls of his bedroom. She wanted him to admit how much he missed Sherlock and John didn’t know if he could do it. John shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching. “I tell him…” John paused as his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and the words escaped him just barely above a whisper, “how much I miss him.” 

His therapist nodded, and their session ended for the day. John didn’t feel any different from having admitted it out loud to another person. He probably guessed it was fairly clear to everyone that it was just so. There were always sympathetic stares and smiles whenever he came around anyone that knew Sherlock. He didn’t mind it.

Lestrade came around more often, it seemed. Sometimes he would randomly pop by 221B and share a tea or something a lot stronger with John and they would chat and hang out. John knew the man was probably hurting as well and they were simply comforted by each other’s presence. They didn’t talk about Sherlock much, but it was a mutual understanding that was unspoken between them. Talking about Sherlock would bring tears and heartache to both of them and neither man knew if they were ready to show that side to one another. 

Mycroft, surprisingly, helped John throughout the first few months of Sherlock’s death. Even now the man helped John and the two became weirdly familiar with one another and formed an unusual friendship despite neither meaning for it to happen. Mycroft helped cover John’s bills, so John was able to take time off from the surgery. He didn’t know when he would return. Grieving was an undeniably long process people had to go through and he was glad to have the extra support from Mycroft so he wouldn’t have to worry financially. The surgery, of course, told him to take as long as he needed and John was thankful for it. John knew he would return in the coming month as he knew Mycroft would not continue paying his bills forever. His therapist also thought it to be a good idea for him to return to working to have a sense of normalcy and routine or to simply get him out of the flat. 

Except, John was not accustomed to normalcy. Not when he used to live with Sherlock Holmes, the most eccentric, unique, adrenaline chasing junkie of a man he’d ever met. No, there was no “ _normal_ ” with Sherlock. Without him, John’s life was mundane and dull. John even feared his psychosomatic limp would return along with the tremble in his hand. Luckily, that hadn’t happened yet. Perhaps, his thoughts were too focused on Sherlock and getting through the days to be reminded to have a limp. 

* * *

When another Tuesday rolled around, just like any other, John Watson had no idea his life was about to change for the second time. He had just walked out of his therapy session, which went pretty well. He told his therapist about the happier moments he shared with Sherlock rather than the last few fleeting moments before the Fall and, overall, it had been nice, but it left an odd, melancholic feeling sitting in his chest, so he decided to walk home instead of choosing to take a cab. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t because he would arrive home to an empty flat. 

As John strolled through a nice park, he thought about stopping for a coffee somewhere soon. He glanced around. There were couples walking hand-in-hand and families playing with the ducks near the pond. He sighed quietly. Life felt so different without _Him_. John felt a fleeting moment of despair. What would he do for the rest of his life without Sherlock? No more crime-solving? No more going up against murderers? No more thrilling cases to solve? No more late-nights running through London searching for clues? No more mind-blowing deductions? No more-

John paused and shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat that promised him tears. All he could do was keep Sherlock’s memory alive. John exhaled shakily. He closed his eyes for a moment before he opened them again, feeling a little calmer. He was about to continue walking when he heard someone call out his name. 

“John!” 

John turned, glancing behind him. To his surprise, he saw Lestrade jogging toward him. 

“Greg? What are you doing here?” 

“Just passing through and thought I’d take a walk. How are you?”

John glanced away briefly with a small shrug. He was tired of hearing that question. He wasn’t doing good, but he didn’t want to admit that. Lestrade seemed to get the hint and gestured to the park bench to the left. John nodded curtly as they both sat, staring out at the park before them. Birds chirped mindlessly in the trees around them and people passed by laughing or talking between each other. The world seemed to continue on and on despite one of the most important people in John’s life no longer being there. John felt an intense bitterness and anger toward the world suddenly. How dare everyone continue on normally as if Sherlock Holmes never existed. How dare the world continue when it lost the most brilliant human to ever exist. John’s eyes fell to his hands that were clasped in his lap. 

“You know,” Lestrade started, “I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.” 

John glanced at him, not fully understanding what he was talking about at first. 

“I knew Sherlock for a very long time.” 

John’s heart clenched at Sherlock’s name. Lestrade and he rarely brought up Sherlock when they hung out. It was just too painful. 

“And…” Lestrade paused, his gaze looking out at the park, “it’s like...he never even existed.” 

John stayed quiet, listening to Lestrade with interest and sympathy. 

“A part of me keeps thinking and hoping it's just one of his games or brilliant plans.” Lestrade continued, “I find myself waiting for him to waltz into Scotland Yard, ready to rail me about giving him a case.” Lestrade smiled sadly and glanced away from John, who could see the tears that pricked Lestrade’s eyes. 

“I know.” John spoke softly, “I...feel the same. I...find myself waiting for him to come home sometimes…” 

The two men were quiet between each other, watching the people in the park. 

“Don’t you just wish you could change what happened?” 

“What do you mean?” John looked at Lestrade. 

“Like...go back in time and redo everything. Figure out what you could’ve done to save him? Give him more cases, talk to him more…” Lestrade trailed off. John’s heart gave a small pang. 

“Greg, I don’t know why Sherlock jumped off that roof, but” John swallowed thickly, “I do know that it isn’t your fault. Moriarty was...toying with us and...I guess he got to Sherlock somehow…”

Lestrade clenched his fists for a second, “Can you believe the media was calling it a suicide pact between that manic and Sherlock? Makes me sick.” 

John shook his head, not wanting to even be reminded of that. There was no way in hell Sherlock was working with Moriarty. He just wouldn’t believe that. Lestrade calmed for a moment and glanced at John, his brow softening as he looked at the ex-army doctor. 

“John,” Lestrade started again, “It isn’t your fault either. We don’t know why he did it and I’m afraid we never will, but…” He trailed off again. 

“Thank you, Greg.” John gave him a smile small as Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder and stood. 

“Well, I should get going. It was nice catching up again.” John stood as well and nodded. 

“We should hang out again soon.” Lestrade said and pulled John in for a tight hug, “Call me if you need me and don't be a stranger.” 

“You too.” John pats Lestrade’s back before they pulled apart and parted ways.

Feeling a bit better after running into Lestrade, John stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. He was staring off to the right at a couple of kids who were chasing the ducks and trying to feed them. He smiled at the kids who were laughing when someone collided harshly with him. He stumbled backward a little as well as the other person and when he looked forward, seeing who it was, his eyes widened. 

A woman had stumbled backward with the collision as well causing her to drop her bag she’d been holding as well as a cup of coffee that went spilling across the pavement. 

“Oh my, I am so sorry, here-” John bent down immediately and started collecting the contents that fell from the woman’s bag and placed them back inside before extending the bag out for her to take. “I apologize, I wasn’t watching where I was going…” John trailed off as the woman looked up at him. The only word that he could describe her as was _ethereal_. 

“No, no that was my bad. I wasn’t paying attention either.” She chuckled softly as she slowly took her bag back, “Thank you um…” 

“John. John Watson.” He said quickly, taking in the appearance of the woman. She had long, gorgeous locks of black hair that were cascading down her shoulders and black bangs that were cut across her forehead. Her eyes were strange in a way that John couldn’t pull his own eyes away from them. They were almost a silver-blue color that seemed like they were sparkling even in the clouded sunlight. Her lips were full and a cherry red color that complemented the dusted blush across her cheeks and nose. She wore a plain, long sleeve, white dress that came just to her knees with tights and red heels that matched her lips. John had never seen someone so stunning in his life. 

The woman smiled and it was interesting because John could have sworn he saw a glint in her eye that he couldn’t quite place, but perhaps it was the trick of the light. She held her hand out for him to shake, “It’s nice to meet you, John Watson.” 

He shook her hand and nodded, pulling himself out of his reverie. “I apologize about your coffee,” John stared after the brown liquid spilling across the ground. He was thankful none had gotten on the woman nor her white dress, “I was actually on my way to grab a coffee, let me buy you another since I so gracefully knocked yours out of your hand.” John looked at her apologetically and she smiled softly. 

“Thank you, you’re too kind, but you don’t have to. It's no big deal, really." 

“Please, I insist,” John said as he grabbed the paper cup of the coffee and discarded it in the nearby trash bin.

“Alright, thank you so much.” 

There was a coffee shop nearby called the Criterion that John ended up taking the woman to. As she stood at the counter and ordered her drink of choice, John studied her from the corner of his eye. He seriously had never seen someone like her before. There was _something_ about her. Something _unusual_. 

“Your name.” The woman was speaking to him now, her strange eyes locked on his own. John fumbled for a moment as they stepped to the side to wait for their coffee.

“My name?”

“Yes, John Watson, I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before. Have you been on the news or something lately? Or maybe something I’ve seen on the web?” The woman pondered, not so much directing the questions at him. John hesitated for a moment before saying, 

“I used to run a blog, maybe you’ve read it?” 

A light came on behind the woman’s eyes; she looked to him. “John Watson. Yes, now I remember. You write a blog about that consulting detective, oh!” She smiled, but then it quickly faltered and she glanced away with a look in her eyes. “I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t be.” John muttered quickly before clearing his throat, “It’s...It’s alright.” It wasn’t alright. John wasn’t alright at all, but for the sake of this beautiful woman, he lied. 

She pressed her lips together and gave a curt nod. “I enjoyed reading your blog. Quite fascinating it all was.” 

“Yes. It somehow got a bit popular.” John smiled sadly. He had not written a thing on the blog since Sherlock’s death, nor was he thinking about it anytime soon. 

“Dreadful what happened to him, isn’t it?” The woman mumbled carefully, her eyes briefly glancing at John as if gauging his reaction. 

“Yes, very dreadful.” He murmured in response, his voice tight. 

Before the woman could say anything else, the barista at the counter called out their order and the two grabbed their paper coffee cups and exited the coffee shop. The cup was warm against John’s fingers as he brought it to his lips and took a sip of the caffeinated drink. It was delicious and reminded him of the day he sat on the bench with Mike and drank the same cup of coffee just an hour before he met Sherlock Holmes. He wiped the memory away as they started on their way. John wasn’t sure why the woman hadn’t parted ways with him yet. He had followed through with his offer and figured the woman would say her goodbye to him and he would never see her again, but for some reason, she continued walking next to him down the side of the street.

While John was pondering this strange thought and this strange woman, she had spoken, “You two were close, right?” 

“Hm? Who?” 

“With the detective that you write about.” 

“Oh...yes we were close. Best friends actually, although I don’t think he realized that sometimes.” John chuckled sadly. The woman smiled warmly as she sipped her coffee, her cherry red lips leaving a stain on the rim of the lid. 

“I never believed it.” She said out-of-the-blue. John gave her a questioning glance. “I never believed all that stuff the media said about him. That it was fake. That he was a fraud and that it was all staged.” 

John felt his heart warm at the comment, “I don’t either, but I appreciate you saying that.”

The woman smiled again, her cherry red lips glistening. They walked in silence for a while, sipping on their respective coffee and watching the cars rumble by. John was still trying to figure out when to part ways with the woman. They were nearing 221B soon. They continued in silence and it wasn’t long before John stopped in front of the black door of 221B. The woman stopped with him. 

“Well, this is me. Again, sorry for bumping into you earlier.” He said politely, hand reaching for the door handle. 

“If you could change what happened, would you?” The woman’s voice was suddenly serious. So serious from how she previously sounded that John turned to her in question, the door to 221B opened just a crack.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” John thought he’d misheard her. Her smile was gone and she was looking at him with a blank stare. 

“If you could change the fate of Sherlock Holmes, would you or would you not?” She questioned again, her stare locked onto him. The way she said the words had John’s hair standing on end and a prickly feeling crawling up his back. He turned a little to face her fully. He searched her eyes, but he didn’t see any malice or mockery in them. 

“Of course I would, why...why would you even ask that?” 

“What if I told you there was a possibility? A second chance. A chance to save him. A chance to bring. Him. Back.” 

“I’d say you’re pulling my leg, now have a good day.” John felt anger rising within him. He felt insulted for some reason. Was she making fun of his grief somehow? Playing some cruel joke on him to make him feel worse? John was about to step inside of 221B when the woman spoke again, stopping him. 

“You want to save him, don’t you?” 

John grit his teeth, wanting to just head inside and slam the door behind him. This woman was probably just some crazy fan of Sherlock’s or something; hell-bent on some theory she had or something of the sort. He’d seen them before, but--John glanced behind him at her. She was still standing in the same spot, staring at him expectantly. John huffed out a sigh and turned again to face her. 

“Look, Sherlock is _gone_ and you are welcome to come up with as many crazy theories or ideas as you want, but it is _not_ going to bring him back. No amount of what-ifs are going to change what he did. He’s dead. He’s gone and he is not coming back.” John’s voice started to rise toward the end of his sentence. His breathing grew rough, affected by his own words. He never acknowledged the fact that Sherlock was truly dead until that moment and that nothing was going to change that fact. He felt on the verge of tears, his face flush with more emotion than he wanted this woman to see. 

The woman, however, didn’t seem affected by his words. “You’re John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier. You fought in Afghanistan for three years before you were wounded and were sent home to London. You had a psychosomatic limp until you met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes changed your life and ever since his death you have not been the same. You drift through day-to-day life trying to figure out what you’re going to do without him by your side. You will never solve crimes together again, you will never hear the screech of his violin or witness the brilliance behind his eyes as he solves a case-” 

John was gritting his teeth so hard his jaw was beginning to hurt. He recognized the distinct feeling of dread. “Who the _hell_ are you?” He whispered quietly, trying to control his breathing. It hadn’t occurred to John that he had never asked the woman her name.

Before she had a chance to respond, John, hurriedly, pushed open the door to 221B and stumbled inside, locking it and leaving the woman standing outside without another word. He pressed his back up against the door and waited for a moment. A sigh escaped him. He heard the sound of high heels clicking against the pavement and, much to his surprise, a small card slipped under the door between his feet. John frowned at it and bent, picking it up. Before he had a chance to look at it, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat.

“Oh John, I was just about to come up to see you!” She exclaimed, a sweet smile gracing her features. John mindlessly stuffed the card into his coat pocket. 

“What for?” 

“Well, I made some extra biscuits-” 

John couldn’t help the small smile he gave her. “I’d love some.” 

Mrs. Hudson nodded curtly and went back into her flat as John headed up the stairs to his own. He stopped in the doorway of the common area, his eyes locking onto the black leather chair that sat, empty, across from his own. John’s small smile fell. There was still so much stuff that reminded him of Sherlock, but there was no way he could bring himself to throw or donate any of it even though Mrs. Hudson had brought it up a few times. John inhaled shakily and sat in his own chair, staring at the empty one across from him. 

He frowned when he remembered the card in his pocket and reached for it. When he pulled it out, he gave it a once over. The card was solid black with just a mobile phone number typed neatly in white on it. 

John stared at it, trying to understand why the woman (well he assumed it was her) had given it to him. She clearly wasn’t interested in dating him, or at least, he didn’t think so. She’d been so _strange._ How had she known all that about Sherlock and himself? 

However, before he could ponder it any longer, Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a silver tray of biscuits fresh from the oven. They smelled wonderful. John tossed the card on the side table next to his chair and greeted Mrs. Hudson with a warm smile. 

They talked quietly with one another, mostly about the day, and when John was going back to work. It wasn’t long until Mrs. Hudson heard her landline ringing downstairs and she rushed off to answer it, leaving John alone upstairs once more. 

The day continued without much excitement. There had been no excitement in John’s life since Sherlock died, but the current days were beginning to feel longer and longer. John tried to keep himself busy, but it was tough, especially surrounded by everything that reminded him of the detective.

It was late in the evening and John had the telly running in the background as he browsed his computer at the table in the common area. He sat with his chin resting on the palm of his hand and his elbow on the table. He had the link to his blog open on one of the windows. He stared at it, the cursor line blinking at him, taunting him. 

John shut his laptop forcefully and sat back in the chair. The flat was so quiet. 

John’s phone buzzed on the small table next to his chair, catching his attention. He got up and grabbed it. Lestrade had texted him about possibly going out later that week to the pub. John was about to respond when his eyes caught sight of the black card with the white numbers on it. He stared at it, thinking back on the woman he met in the park and the strange atmosphere that surrounded her. 

_“You want to save him, don’t you?”_

John’s jaw clenched. 

_“What if I told you there was a possibility? A second chance. A chance to save him. A chance to bring. Him. Back.”_

Bring Sherlock back? Was she mad? It was impossible. Sherlock was dead. Nothing was going to change that fact. John shook his head and sent Lestrade a quick text before he called it a night. He switched off the lights and telly in the common area and headed for the stairs leading up to his bedroom before stopping briefly to stare at the closed door down the hall. Sherlock’s room. John’s gaze fell as he ascended the stairs. 

Once he was in bed, he closed his eyes, sighing quietly into the darkness of his room. John tried to sleep. He felt tired, but his body wasn’t allowing him to fall asleep. He tossed and turned and huffed in frustration. John sat up in bed, running his hands through his short hair before letting them fall to his lap. He glanced briefly at the clock that sat on his nightstand. It was just nearing three in the morning. John shook his head and then glanced at his shut door. 

“What the hell.” He murmured to no one and threw the covers off himself before stalking down the stairs and back into the common area. He switched on the light, his eyes immediately locking onto the black card that sat on the table next to his chair and lamp. John grabbed the card and his mobile phone. An uneasy feeling settled itself into his stomach as he stared at the card. What had she meant? How was there a way to save Sherlock? It was bugging him. 

John walked to the room at the end of the hallway and reached out, hesitantly, for the doorknob. He hadn’t set foot in Sherlock’s room since his passing. He slowly turned the knob and opened the door. It creaked upon opening it and John’s breath hitched in his throat as he slowly stepped inside. He switched the lamp on that sat on the nightstand, washing the room in a warm glow of orange light. Everything looked exactly as Sherlock had left it. John’s heart felt heavy in his chest as he sat on Sherlock’s bed, feeling the soft comforter there. He took a moment to let his eyes drift around the room. He hadn’t been in Sherlock’s room many times, only out of respect for his privacy, but…

John’s eyes landed on the violin case that poked out from underneath the bed. He pulled it out, placing it on his lap, and opened it. Sitting in the case was a familiar violin and its bow. John let his hand slide against the cool, wooden instrument. He gently plucked one of the strings, making a sound in the quietness of the room. His heart lurched as he set the instrument aside.

John looked at the black card. 

What did he have to lose at this point? 

He grabbed his mobile phone and entered the phone number in and hesitated on pressing the call button. His eyes glanced at the violin again and then to the empty room around him. Could he bring Sherlock...back? 

He pressed the call button and put the phone up to his ear. It rang and his heart pounded loudly. The ringing ended- 

“Hello John Watson,” A woman spoke on the other end, “I was hoping you’d call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments, but please be kind and nice. Fanfic writers are here to create fun stories with characters they love. Kudos are welcome!


	2. Destiny and Her Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I may upload a chapter every time I finish a chapter. For example, I almost have chapter 3 fully written, so that is why I'm uploading chapter 2 now and so when I finish writing chapter 4 I'll upload chapter 3. Does that make sense? Well, it does for me and helps me to continue writing consistently rather than floundering about not uploading. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and thank you for reading! Tell me what you think about my story so far, but please be nice & considerate! Kudos are welcome! 
> 
> Music that inspired me:  
> Narnia OST- The Wardrobe  
> Ursine Vulpine ft. Annaca- Wicked Game  
> H2o Just Add Water OST- Will Comforts Cleo

John had called the number on the card and spoke to the mysterious woman. She said nothing about Sherlock nor about bringing him back. John had tried to ask her questions, but she wouldn’t answer them. The only thing she told him was that she wanted to meet with him tomorrow afternoon. 

When she hung up abruptly, John felt like an idiot. He stared at his phone in disbelief. This lady had to be playing him somehow, he just didn’t know how. 

“I guess we’ll wait and see…” John murmured, “What do you think, Sherlock?” He looked around the room sadly. John tried to imagine what Sherlock would say: 

_You’re an idiot. It’s not possible to bring people back from the dead, John._

“Maybe…” John looked at the violin once more, “But let's hope you’re wrong for once.” 

John didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but somehow, he had closed his eyes and fell asleep on Sherlock’s bed, next to the violin. He eventually woke to the sun shining through the crack in the curtains and sat up, dazed. Birds chirped outside the window and he could faintly hear the sounds of London traffic. John reached for his phone and checked the time. He blinked wearily at it. It was just past noon. 

The woman didn’t give him a time that she said she would be coming to meet with him, so he slowly rose out of the bed, leaving the violin case open and exiting the room, rubbing his eyes. He was thankful no one would know he had slept in his dead flatmate's bed. It was an accident, but John found he was able to sleep through the entire night for once. He didn’t want to dwell on it too much, so he distracted himself by making a pot of tea. 

While the kettle was boiling the water, John raced upstairs and changed out of the clothes he slept in and into fresh clean ones. He didn’t bother to comb his hair and thought he could go another day without a shave. It wasn’t long before the kettle was screeching at him and he was back downstairs pouring a mug of black tea for himself. He sighed into the warm cup and took a sip, letting the hot liquid warm his stomach. 

He brought the mug to the table with his laptop and sat down, staring at the closed computer. He decided against going back onto his un-updated blog and turned to switch on the telly instead. He ended up watching the news for a bit before there was a sound that caught his attention from behind him.

John’s head whipped toward the common area’s main door entrance. The woman from yesterday stood there with her high heels and all. John jumped up, startled, his hand instinctively reaching behind him to the waistband of his jeans where he would usually keep his handgun. 

“No need for that.” She held her hands up, showing she was unarmed. It wasn’t like John had his handgun on him either, but it probably would have been a good idea. John’s shoulders were tense. 

“How did you get in here?” He questioned, surprising himself. He hadn’t even heard the door downstairs unlock nor open.

“Thank you for calling.” She gave John a small smile, pointedly ignoring his question. She was stunning. “I expected you to be sensitive, considering the situation, but I didn’t expect you to slam the door in my face.” 

“Yes, well…” John started to say but didn’t exactly know what he was going to say to this woman, “What you said...yesterday...about...Sherlock…” 

“Sherlock, yes, quite the interesting man, isn’t he?” 

John stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling unsure and a bit on edge. He didn’t know who this woman was or what her angle was either. He kept his guard up, “So who are you?” He questioned, ignoring her comment about Sherlock. 

The woman seemed hesitant suddenly. “I fear you won’t believe me. You, humans, are so skeptical of everything.” 

John scoffed and the woman gave him a complex look.

“It’d be easier if I just show you.” 

“Show me what?” 

The woman pressed her lips together and then asked, “Can we sit?” 

John frowned, trying to wrap his head around what the hell was going on and why this woman was standing in his flat. He should kick her out and rethink this whole thing. What was he _thinking_? Perhaps she was one of Mycroft’s people though? The thought hadn’t occurred to John until that moment, but it was plausible. The woman looked at him patiently and John’s resolve left him. He motioned to Sherlock’s chair as he sat on his own. The woman seemed to relax a bit as she stepped over to John, although she didn’t sit. She merely stood in front of him. 

She stepped forward towards him making John tense up. His flight or fight response ready to kick in at any moment. The woman held up her delicate fingers in surrender. “Just, trust me for a minute.” 

John wanted to comment on that, but decided against it and relaxed a little. Fine. He would play her strange little charade. “What are you doing?” 

“Close your eyes.” 

John wanted to laugh. Who did this woman think he was? An idiot?

_You are an idiot._

Sherlock’s voice rang in the back of his mind and his heart gave a small, aching pang. He didn’t know why, but he closed his eyes, however, not before giving the woman a stern and calculating look. He briefly wondered if the woman was going to rob him and run, but it quickly faded as he felt the cool touch of her fingertips against his forehead. He resisted the urge to flinch away from them. 

There was a loud ringing sound in his ears all of a sudden and a nauseating, dizzy feeling that overtook him for the briefest of moments before it was suddenly gone and the touch of the woman’s fingers vanished from his forehead.

“Open.” Her voice murmured with the lowest of echos. 

John opened his eyes. They were standing in the middle of 221B. John frowned in confusion. This lady was making a fool out of him, wasn’t she? He sure felt like one. But, hadn’t he been sitting? He didn’t remember standing up. John glanced around, everything looked the same and felt the same. 

“Is this some sort of joke?” He broke the silence between them. The woman snorted out a laugh and John felt even more of a fool.

“You can’t tell?” 

“Can’t tell what?” John stared at her, a clear frown on his face and his annoyance showing. He was not enjoying this little joke or game or whatever it was that she was doing.

She smiled coyly, “I’ll give you a hint. Remember what Sherlock used to do to figure things out?” 

John blinked at her at the sudden mention of Sherlock. She cocked her head slightly. 

“He used to...go somewhere, right?” She tapped her temple with a painted fingernail. 

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable as she waited for him to answer. “Yes, he called it his…” He paused, thinking, “His mind palace or something?” 

“Ding, ding, ding! Correct!” The woman exclaimed, clapping her hands, “Except yours is more of a…” She glanced around, “mind flat. A replica of your current flat, hm. Interesting.” She was murmuring to herself now as the cogs in John’s brain continued to turn and then click. 

“Wait-” John looked around frantically, “What are you saying?” 

“We’re in your _mind_ , John.” She was grinning like a child that was just given a lollipop. 

He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. That, or he slipped and fell, cracked his head open on a rock somewhere and was currently dying. This wasn’t possible. How could this be possible?

“My mind?” John echoed her. She hummed in response. 

“Try imagining something, anything. A plate of biscuits perhaps?” 

John’s mind was spiraling, but how was it spiraling if he was inside his mind and- John touched his head, a pang of pain fleeting through it. 

“Don’t think too hard about it, you’ll only hurt yourself.” The woman advised and John looked at her like she was crazy. “Just, imagine the plate of biscuits, will you?”

John sighed and closed his eyes again, he imagined a glass plate with some of Mrs. Hudson’s fresh biscuits on it, like the one he had the day prior. He opened his eyes again and glanced around. 

The woman was holding a plate of biscuits. John fumbled. “H-how? What is going on-” 

The woman held up her free hand. “I’ll explain in due time.” 

“I need to sit down.” John murmured and sat down in his ‘mind’ chair that looked exactly like the chair in the flat. He put his head in his hands for a moment, trying to stop his spiraling thoughts. The woman was, thankfully, quiet for a moment.

When John finally felt a little calmer, he peeked up at the woman. She was no longer holding the plate of biscuits, the plate was nowhere in sight. John swallowed uneasily. “Okay.” He mumbled, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” The woman cocked her head again, her black curls falling with the motion. 

“Can you please tell me what is going on and who the hell you are?” 

The woman smiled, suddenly seeming a lot wiser in his mind’s eye and a lot older, but not in age. John shifted in his chair. He suddenly wished he had something to distract him from the impending thought that he was currently sitting in his ‘mind palace’ or ‘mind flat’ as she had called it.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” He admitted. 

“I apologize. It is a bit much to take in and it’s only going to get worse.” She said with an apologetic expression crossing her beautiful features.

“So, what is all this? What-what is-” John fumbled with what questions to even ask her. 

“I’ll answer your questions, but I want to show you something first,” She said softly, “Follow me.” 

She walked to the entrance of the common area of the flat where the door was shut and waited expectantly for him. John got up from his chair and hesitantly followed her. When she opened the door, John was blinded by a bright light and had to shield his eyes from it for a moment before he let his hand fall to his side as he recognized the interior of Bart’s hospital. He had not stepped inside the hospital since Sherlock’s death. Being here sent shivers down his spine. 

“You and Sherlock Holmes are quite a unique pair.” The woman was saying as John, astoundingly, watched himself walk by with a cane next to Mike. John’s mouth fell open. He felt like he was dead now and this was his life flashing before his eyes. The scene seemingly switched before his eyes as if he was viewing a movie. John watched as Mike and his other self walked into a lab room of Bart’s. John’s heart stopped at the person standing across the way. A mop of black curly hair. A tall, slim figure in a black suit studying something under a microscope. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered in disbelief under his breath. He felt his breath quicken and without another thought, John rushed over to Sherlock and thrust his hands out toward the man to grab hold of him and never let him go. However, that didn’t happen. John’s hands shot straight through Sherlock’s form as if John, himself, were a ghost. Horrified, he ripped his hands back as if burned. 

“He can’t hear nor feel you.” The woman said with a soft tone, “This is not real life, it is the memories you have retained inside your mind.” 

John stared at Sherlock from the side as his other self commented on the layout of the room. Something along the lines of “a bit different from my day.” 

“My memories,” John echoed her once more. She nodded as her eyes washed over Sherlock. 

“Yes and as I was saying…” She said as the scene before them played out faintly as they spoke, “You and Sherlock are a unique pair of human beings.” “I don’t understand,” John mumbled as he stared at Sherlock, his eyes not leaving the man as he texted something on his other self’s mobile phone. 

“You and Sherlock Holmes are one of the only two pairs of people in the entire world that have been destined to meet no matter the circumstances.” 

That caught John’s attention and he finally pulled his gaze from Memory Sherlock and to the woman and her strange eyes. “I still don’t understand.” He repeated. 

The woman couldn’t help but smile before her expression turned serious again, “It means,” She paused, “No matter where you were in your life, you were destined to meet Sherlock at some point in time.” 

John blinked, his gaze shifting to Memory Sherlock once more. The memory he was witnessing seemed so long ago. The ‘Memory John’ standing across from him didn’t even feel like him, but a completely different person than who he was now. This ‘memory John’ had no idea what kind of pain he was in for, what kind of grief. John resisted a shiver that traveled down his spine. 

“There have been many different scenarios. You two could have met at a University or on the tube ride home from work. There was even a slim chance of you two meeting during your time at war.” She explained before her eyes drifted to the memory scene playing out in front of them, “The scenario you lived is my personal favorite. It’s just so…interestingly sweet how he tries to impress you upon first glance, don’t you think?” 

John watched the memory scene of Sherlock deducing him right before his eyes. John hadn’t thought of it as Sherlock trying to impress him before. He shook the thought away and ignored her question and instead asked, “But...why? What is the meaning behind all this? Why are you showing me this? How are you showing me this? How do you know all this?” 

“There is no meaning.” She said simply and in a matter-of-factly type of voice, “It’s just how it has been written. I don’t make the rules.” 

John looked up just as Memory Sherlock passed through his form and grabbed his familiar blue scarf, wrapping it around his neck and saying something about having left his riding crop in the morgue. The scene eventually faded, as it was the end of the memory it seemed and the woman led him through another door. 

They began walking for a while through long corridors that John recognized from Bart’s hospital. They walked through another door and came back to 221B, except it looked to be like she was showing him another memory. It was a simpler memory than his first meeting with Sherlock. This memory contained a calm afternoon between Sherlock and himself. ‘Memory John’ was sitting at the table in the common area, typing away at his laptop, and ‘Memory Sherlock’ was sitting at the kitchen table creating some horrible mess of an experiment.

John felt his throat tighten and he swallowed thickly as he watched the memory. The woman was quiet next to him, watching as well. John couldn’t help the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes. The woman glanced at him before directing her gaze down as she brushed invisible dust off her dress. 

“You miss him.” Her voice was soft in the quietness of the memory. 

“Oh God yes.” John admitted, his vision blurring with the tears, “I miss him so damn much. I would do... _anything,_ anything at all to have him back.” John’s voice was rough with emotion, his blurred eyes never leaving Sherlock’s form by the table. 

The woman was staring at him now, but John didn’t care. She had a sad look in her strange eyes, but John didn’t care. He didn’t care about her pity or anyone else’s pity. He never wanted to leave this place if it meant he could stay here with Memory Sherlock. 

“Why…” John whispered, finally turning to the woman, “Why have you brought me here? Why are you showing me this? To hurt me? To...to remind me that I will never see him again?” The tears slipped from John’s eyes and traveled down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. 

The woman closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again, that sad expression still lingering there. “John, I have never wished to harm you in any way.” 

“Then why?!” John’s voice rose, emotion whirling in his heart, “Tell me!” 

The woman exhaled slowly, “My name...is Destiny.” 

John blinked slowly, more tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“I am a _being_ tied with human fate and their destiny,” She started to explain, “You see, Sherlock was not destined to die that day on the roof just as you are not destined to live on without him.”

John’s breath hitched in his throat. “So, he really is gone then?” 

Destiny lowered her chin, “In this _timeline_ , unfortunately, yes.” 

John felt like breaking down. His world shattered. His bottom lip quivered and he cleared his throat, not knowing what to feel at the moment. Sherlock was _gone_. He wasn’t going to miraculously come back from the dead as John had been secretly hoping for the past six months. John felt like collapsing to his knees, but he held steady and exhaled softly at the news.

“John I need you to understand what I am saying.” Destiny lightly grabbed his shoulder where his old bullet wound was, somehow it grounded him. It kept him from spiraling even further, “Listen to me, Sherlock was not supposed to _die_.” 

“So, so...what are you saying?” John shook his head, “That something went wrong?” 

“Precisely.” Destiny was looking him in the eyes. She gave his shoulder a light squeeze, “I don’t know what it is that went wrong. Something happened that was not supposed to happen, however, I have the power to find out what it is and _change_ it.” 

John’s breath halted for a moment. _What?_ “What...what are you saying exactly?” His heart quickened and thudded so loud in his ears he thought he wouldn’t hear her. 

“Somewhere along the way, the timeline got skewed and now we are currently here in a timeline that, frankly, should not even exist,” Destiny continued, “I can alter the timeline to be back on track, but I need your help to do so.” 

“Me?” John couldn’t fathom what was happening. What could he possibly do to help her? How had he gone from bumping into this woman to finding out she was Destiny itself? John’s head spun. 

“Yes. With your help, we can bring Sherlock back and prevent his untimely death.” 

Was this a dream? John wondered once more. He prayed and hoped this was not a dream. He had a chance to bring Sherlock back? To save him? To be by his side again? Destiny released her light grip from his shoulder and took a few steps back. 

“Are you interested in helping me or not?”.

Lestrade’s words echoed in John’s mind, _“Don't you just wish you could change what happened?”_

 _“_ Yes.”

Destiny released a breath as if she had been holding it in. Had she thought he would refuse? “Good.” She murmured after a moment. “I’m going to take us out of your memories now that we’re on the same page.” 

She stepped forward, reaching toward his forehead, but he stopped her, “Wait.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Just let me…” John felt a little embarrassed, but he stepped passed her and over to Memory Sherlock sitting at the table. Destiny watched from her spot near the door, a curious tilt to her head. 

“I don’t know how yet, but I’m coming for you, Sherlock you...you brilliant _idiot_. Look what you’re putting me through now.” John whispered to Memory Sherlock even though he knew this Sherlock didn’t technically exist. “You wait for me, you hear?” John commanded in a soft voice. His cheeks felt tight from the drying tears, so he wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He inhaled and released a soft sigh. 

“Yes, John.” Memory Sherlock suddenly spoke. John’s heart thudded at the sound of his voice, almost like he was answering him, but John knew that it was because Memory John had asked something. John gave a short nod and turned back to Destiny. “Alright, I’m ready.” 

Destiny smiled sweetly and nodded, “Close your eyes.” 

John did as he was told and, shortly after, he felt the cool touch of her fingertips to his forehead, and then there was that loud ringing noise in his ears along with the dizzy feeling and then it was suddenly gone in a flash. John opened his eyes to see Destiny standing in front of him. He was in his chair like before. He blinked rapidly at the bright light streaming in through the curtains of the common area. 

“Sorry, you might feel a little discombobulated.” Destiny spoke in the quiet space of the flat, “It shouldn’t last long.” 

John nodded, feeling exactly like she said he would. Distantly, he could hear the rumble of London life outside the flat. He shook his head as things started to feel more grounded and not like he was floating in space. They locked eyes for a moment.

“You have questions.” She stated and it reminded him of the way Sherlock had said that to him on the way to his very first case with him. _A Study in Pink._

“Well, a few.” It felt like he had a million. Destiny glanced at the chair which John had deemed as Sherlock’s and then looked to him as if asking permission to sit there. John nodded slowly, gesturing to the chair. Destiny sat delicately and faced him.

“Okay, now for your questions, then I’ll get to the important part.” 

“You said your name was Destiny?” 

“Yes.” 

“So, who are you? What do you do? You said you were being bound to the fate of humanity or something?” 

Destiny placed her hands in her lap, “Yes, more or less. I oversee destiny and the fate of humankind to put it simply. Hence my name. I ensure that people’s destinies are fulfilled and aim to study anomalies in the system unless they deviate to the point of creating another timeline that is not supposed to exist, which has never happened... _until now_.” 

“Right…” John mumbled, finding it hard to wrap his head around what she was saying.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” She said, “I know it is difficult to understand, but it is easier to take my word for it.”

“Hm,” John hummed, “You keep saying another timeline…” 

“Yes. Multiple timelines can exist depending on the choices of humankind. A human can have two roads with two choices, the human can decide which road to take and the timeline will alter slightly, depending on the choice.” 

John cocked his head, nodding slowly. 

“For example, if you had chosen to take a cab ride home from your therapy appointment during your first few days back in London from Afghanistan, you would not have run into Mike in the park, therefore missing the opportunity to meet Sherlock at that point. Thus, your timeline would have altered slightly and you would have eventually met Sherlock at the bank unless another choice would deter the course of your meeting.” 

“A small change like taking a cab aside from walking, _that_ can alter a timeline?” 

“Precisely.” 

“My God.” John murmured, feeling overwhelmed all of a sudden. 

“It seems complicated and probably a bit overwhelming if you think about it too closely, but people make choices every single day of their lives, some as simple as choosing where to eat for lunch.”

“So…” John started, “You said the timeline we’re in now…”

“Is not supposed to exist, yes.” 

“But why?” 

“Because Sherlock’s destiny was not fulfilled. His fate was not to jump from the roof of Barts and die.” 

John flinched a little at the blunt way she spoke of Sherlock’s death. He was so used to people walking on eggshells around him and not even mentioning Sherlock’s name. 

“Sherlock’s death created a huge anomaly in the system that altered the original timeline so badly that it created a separate timeline from itself, thus where we are currently.” 

“But we can fix it? How exactly?” 

“We have to figure out what caused Sherlock’s fate to alter and prevent it at all costs.” 

“And how are we supposed to do that?” 

“That’s the tricky part.” Destiny’s shoulders slumped a little, “The timelines get a bit muddy sometimes. There are a lot of choices made and many get jumbled up at times, so I can’t pinpoint the exact variable that changed Sherlock’s fate. It was only after his death that I noticed the split in the timeline.” 

John let out a breath, “Where do I come in? You said you needed me, why?” 

“You’re the only one I can use to help me,” Destiny explained, “You’re the closest to Sherlock. It is only logical to use you to figure out what the variable is.” 

“Right.” He mumbled. That did make perfect sense, “So, how am I supposed to figure it out if you can’t, Miss Being of Destiny?” 

Destiny pursed her lips at the slight mockery, but she ignored it and opted for explaining instead, “I plan to send you back in time. I can’t personally meddle with human choices and their variables, but I can...influence them to an extent, so that is why I need you. As a human, you are not bound by any laws of my world, you’re allowed to change your mind and alter things in a way that suits you, therefore you can set the timeline back on course.” 

“Sorry...um...send me back in time?”

“Send you back, yes, _before_ Sherlock’s death.” 

John’s heart thudded in his ears again. He’s allowed to go back? Back to when Sherlock was alive? John sat up straighter in his chair. Is this real? 

“I’ve been able to pinpoint that the variable which tampered with Sherlock’s fate must have taken place somewhere in the six months leading up to that moment on the rooftop.” 

“Six months?!” John squeaked, “How is that enough time to figure it out?” 

“It’s not, that’s the problem. It is, kind of, time constricted, unfortunately, for you.” 

“Shit,” John muttered, touching his forehead in disbelief. 

“Shit indeed, but…” Destiny sat back in the chair, shifting her weight a little, “I am able to send you back an extra month, but that is as far back as I can send you, however, even that is getting risky…” 

John’s head was spinning with so much information. He still couldn’t grasp that this was even happening and that it was all real. Sending him back in time? Like time traveling? John briefly wondered about all the movies that involved time travel and if any of them were factual. Probably not, was his guess.

“I should inform you that if we fail to prevent the variable, the same fate will ensue for Sherlock, thus creating this altered timeline all over again and you will have to relive the events in real-time for a second time.” 

John’s brows knit together in both concern and a bit of dread. That was a lot of pressure, but if it meant bringing Sherlock back, John didn’t think he had it anywhere in him to refuse such a deal. 

“Then we won’t fail.”

Destiny smirked. “I should also mention that _if_ we succeed, it will also bring back a rather unpleasant character along with Sherlock. One that has lingered in the shadows since the very moment you met Sherlock.” 

Silence washed over the room briefly before John whispered the dreadful name, “Moriarty, you mean.” 

“Unfortunately. He killed himself right before Sherlock threw himself from the roof.” 

“Yes, I remember.” John tapped the arm of his chair, swallowing thickly, “The media called it a suicide pact.” He clenched one of his fists at the anger flaring in his chest. 

“You know better than anyone that it wasn’t.” 

Did he? John wondered, but didn’t voice it. There was another brief silence between them, letting the information sink in. John’s heart was still thudding heavily.

“So, what do we do now?” 

“Well, depending on if you accept the deal, we must prepare you for your journey to the past.” 

“Prepare me?” John’s brows knit together with uncertainty. 

“Of course. Time travel is not an easy task to complete. It requires preparation and precise calculations.” 

“Can you tell me how it works?” 

Destiny gave him a level stare, “Here is how it will go,” She started, “You, as you are now, will remain. When I send you back, you will be the John Watson in that timeline, but with knowledge of the current John Watson that you are at this moment.” 

“Yeah, that isn’t confusing at all.” John snorted. 

“In simpler terms, you will have all the knowledge you contain now, that means you will know how every case goes if you remember them fully, you will know Sherlock’s death is approaching, you will have the knowledge that you have experienced up until this point, but as John Watson in the past. You will most likely experience an insane amount of, as you humans call it, Deja Vu.” 

John nodded, it made a little more sense, but it still made his head hurt thinking about it. This itself was insane. 

“So,” Destiny stood abruptly and held her hand out toward John, “Do we have a deal, John Watson?” 

John looked from her hand to her face. Of course, he wanted to bring Sherlock back, but what exactly was he getting himself into? Time-travel? He shook the thoughts away. He was agreeing to help bring Sherlock back and that is all that mattered. If he succeeded, he’d have his best friend back. The thought gave him the feeling of determination surging through him; he stood as well and grasped Destiny’s hand. 

“We have a deal.” 

Destiny smiled as she shook his hand. “I’m pleased to hear. If you don’t have any more questions at this time, I need to start preparing immediately and I need you to get all the rest you can get, preferably starting now. Time travel is exhausting and you will need all the strength you can manage.” Destiny headed toward the door, her red heels clicking against the floorboards.

“Wait-” 

Destiny stopped at the common area entrance and glanced behind her at him, “I will be ready at midnight and I will need you to be ready as well. Get some rest, John.” 

John watched as Destiny descended the stairs until he heard the click of 221B’s door shut, leaving him in a quiet flat that left a strange atmosphere around him. He felt jittery. If everything Destiny told him was true, he should probably try and get some shut-eye now. As he headed for the stairs that ascended to his room, he paused in the doorway, looking down the hallway at the cracked open door of Sherlock’s room again. John felt his chest tighten and he hurried up the stairs to his bedroom where he shut the door and leaned against it, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He started laughing breathily. He must be crazy. Did any of that even happen or did he hallucinate it? 

John shook those thoughts from his mind _. Destiny was real. Is real._ She was here in the flesh and she is going to send him back in time to save Sherlock from death’s grip despite how crazy it all seemed. Feeling another sense of determination and also feeling a bit dazed from the events that happened since he left his therapy session yesterday, he pulled his jacket off and kicked his shoes off before getting under the sheets of his bed and staring up at the ceiling. 

John shut his eyes and tried to get himself to sleep. After about thirty minutes of trying, he sat up, frustrated. How could he sleep with all the information Destiny gave him? How was he supposed to sleep and drift off into dreamland when the possibility of saving his best friend from death was just on the horizon? John felt restless suddenly. 

How could he possibly fall asleep when he knew that Sherlock was somewhere in another timeline, _alive_ and that he would be with him within hours, according to Destiny. John’s breath hitched in his throat at the thought. He was going to see Sherlock again, alive and well. He was going to resolve cases with Sherlock again. The thought had John’s heart racing and he suddenly felt giddy and excited for the first time in six months. He laid back down, turning on his side, and shut his eyes. He wanted to be well-rested even though his body felt like running a mile.

* * *

John didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but he was soon woken by someone gently shaking him. He jolted, startled from his sleep. Through the darkness of the room, his eyes adjusted to see a familiar face there. Destiny’s eyes pierced him through the darkness of the room.

“Good, you’re awake. Are you ready?” It was Destiny. She looked the same as when she left so many hours ago. John blinked the sleep away from his eyes, his brain slowly catching up and realizing everything had, much to his joy, not been a dream. 

“It wasn’t a dream.” John murmured in disbelief. 

Destiny gave him an odd look but didn’t comment on it. “Come on, get up.” 

John pushed the comforter aside and hurried to put his shoes on. He also snatched up his coat and pulled it on hastily. “Thank you for listening to me and taking the time to rest up. It’ll make the process and transition from different timelines much smoother for you.” 

John nodded stiffly. “So, how does this work? Do I need to do anything?” 

“No.” Destiny said curtly, “Just stand still and concentrate. Do you wish to bring anything with you? Notes or?” 

“I’m allowed to do that?” John raised a questioning eyebrow. Destiny chuckled and nodded. John thought about it for a moment, “My laptop?” 

Destiny nodded once more. John grabbed his laptop from the side table next to his bed and stuffed it in a bag that had a strap and slung it across his body. 

“I must do a few preparations before I can complete the sequence,” Destiny spoke, her voice serious. John didn’t respond but watched as she crouched and began to run her fingers across the floor of the room. John’s eyes widened at the sight of Destiny’s fingertips emitting a soft white glow from them. She circled around him, leaving a trail of white light searing into the floor around him.. John watched with fascination as she drew cryptic symbols he couldn’t comprehend next to the circle. They all glowed softly in the darkness of the room. 

When she finished, she stood up straight and stepped up to John. She was only slightly shorter than him, but in her heels, she reached about his height. She looked into his eyes as if searching for something. Doubt maybe? Second thoughts? Well, she wouldn’t find any. Seeming satisfied, she reached her hand up and lightly touched his forehead. 

“Do you know _why_ he did it?” John surprised himself with his question, not knowing why he asked it. Destiny seemed caught off guard by it as well. Despite it being whispered, it seemed loud in the quiet upstairs bedroom. 

“Yes.” She whispered back. John felt her fingers lightly tracing what seemed like another symbol on his forehead, although he did not feel nor see the glowing light. 

“Why…?” John questioned, quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper. He found he was afraid to hear the answer. Destiny stared at him for a solid moment, searching his eyes once more. 

“To save you and others, but mostly you.” She murmured. 

“What-” 

“We must begin.” She cut him off and John let the words die on his lips. _To save him?_

“Close your eyes.” She murmured and John did. He shut his eyes and inhaled shakily. He was nervous, beyond nervous. Hell, he’d done so many crazy things in his life from invading another country to chasing murderers throughout London, but he didn’t know what to expect from _time-traveling_ of all things. 

“You will experience a lot of things at once,” Destiny’s voice was calming in the quiet of the room, “When you arrive in the past, you will most likely feel the side-effects of traveling through time, which are dizziness, deja vu, nausea, and most of all, exhaustion. This will take a pretty big toll on your body and you will be _time-sick_ once you get there. Don’t be alarmed if you sleep for more than eight hours or happen to pass out from the exhaustion.” 

John inhaled and exhaled again, trying to calm himself as he listened to her speak. He had no idea what being ‘time-sick’ meant, but he didn’t bother with asking. “I should also mention that we only get one shot at this. If we fail and this timeline is recreated, it must stay. There is no do-over. It is risky just doing this once.”

“I understand.” John straightened, feeling the soldier's side in himself coming alive. It was like a mission back during his time at war.. There were no do-overs. He only had one shot. 

“I’m sending you back seven months before Sherlock’s death.” John felt Destiny grab his right arm and lift his sleeve a little. He felt her clasp something around his wrist. “I am giving you a watch with a timer on it so you can keep track of how much time is left.” 

John wanted to look, but he kept his eyes closed as she had instructed. “Within the next few moments, you will experience time travel. Are you ready, John?” 

“Will I see you again?” He questioned quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

Destiny was quiet for a moment, but when she spoke, John could hear a smile in her voice, “Most definitely. You won’t be alone in this.” 

That made John feel a bit better. “I’m ready.” 

“Good luck.” Destiny was grinning, he could tell by her voice and he returned it. 

John felt the touch of Destiny’s fingertips at the center of his forehead and in the next moment, he felt the sensation of himself falling. His eyes flew open, but all he saw was a blur of moments that looked like memories. John’s limbs flailed around him as if he were trying to pull himself up above the surface of water except he kept falling. His body spun backward and his mind whirled. He couldn’t focus on a single thing. The images blurred and flew past him. There were bright lights and colors that attacked his vision and he felt his body fall into a sensation that felt like a tank of water. John gasped as he floated, spun, and, quite literally, fell through time. 

John’s body jolted in place as his vision blurred and the room spun with a nauseating swirl. His hands had a death grip on the mattress beneath him and his brow was slick with sweat. He was breathing heavily and his tongue felt like a desert in need of something cold and wet. His head felt like he’d been on a merry-go-ride too many times imitating the feeling of being drunk on one too many Jack-n-Cokes. He had no idea what was even happening. He shut his eyes, but it only made the dizzy feeling worse. It was like having the world’s worst hangover and he couldn’t tell which way was up or down.

John groaned and when the dizziness started waning, he slowly opened his eyes again, taking in his surroundings. He was in his room still, which looked very much the same as his room from his timeline. John, very slowly, tried to sit up. His head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. He touched his forehead, wincing at the massive headache lingering there. “Damn.” He murmured, his words slurring a bit. He let his hand fall to the bed as he turned his head, glancing around. It looked like his normal room, nothing was unusual or out of place, however, Destiny was nowhere in sight nor was the markings she made on the floor.

John’s sleeve was bunched up and he caught sight of his right wrist. Attached there was a simple black watch with soft, glowing white numbers. He blinked at the glowing numbers there. It reminded him of the black card with Destiny’s number on it.

**_213:24:59:58_ **

“213 days, 24 hours, 59 minutes, and 58 seconds,” John mumbled to himself. “Interesting.” He huffed out a laugh in disbelief. He made it. 

John started laughing quietly, his shoulders shaking a little with the action. He couldn’t believe it. It was all real.

A noise caught John’s attention and he froze. He listened closely and it came again. A note from a violin. John’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. Could it be? Is it really true? He scrambled to get out of his bed, throwing the comforter off with the motion and nearly tripping and falling when sudden dizziness overtook him for a moment. He tried to push it aside, knowing it was a side-effect like Destiny mentioned, but he had to see _him_. He had to see if it was real. John opened his door and struggled down the steps to the common area. The violin grew louder as well as John’s heart thudding like a drum in his ears. His mouth was dry and in dire need of a drink, but he didn’t care. 

John stumbled into the common area of the flat and stopped in the doorway, breathing heavily. His back was to John, but standing in the middle of the flat in a silk blue robe with a mess of black curls was-

“Sherlock-!” John breathed out, emotions welling up in his chest making it seem harder to breathe.

At the sound of his name, the bow on the violin stopped abruptly and the tall, slender figure turned slightly. Striking, steel blue eyes landed on John and he felt his bottom lip quiver. He couldn’t believe his eyes. _There he was_. _He was alive._

“Morning, John.” Sherlock’s deep baritone voice struck a chord in John and he felt tears prick his eyes. “John?” There was confusion and perhaps a hint of concern in that deep voice following after his morning greeting, but John couldn’t tell because it was only a matter of seconds until he realized something was acutely wrong with him. Probably another side-effect, he knew, but it was all too much. John’s vision wavered as Sherlock’s figure blurred and suddenly he was tipping sideways, falling to the floor. 

“John!?” 

Was the last thing he heard before he collapsed into oblivion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and feel free to tell me what you think about the story so far in the comments! Kudos are welcomed! Enjoy the rest of your day/night.


	3. Back To The Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello (: So I wasn't going to post this chapter until I finished chapter 4, which I almost have done, but I thought it was beginning to take too long, so I thought I'd go ahead and post this chapter! I will admit that this chapter is a bit of a filler chapter, only because it is John going back to the past and adjusting to being there, so I apologize if there isn't much going on in this chapter. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy it. Please leave any comments, telling me what you think, or just leave a kudos if you enjoyed reading it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left a comment or kudos and has told me they liked my little idea of a story. I super appreciate it and it encourages me to write. 
> 
> Happy Reading! Be kind and have a great day/night!
> 
> I do not own Sherlock, all rights are reserved for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC. This work is for entertainment purposes only.

When John woke for the second time, wherever he was, it was dark and the sounds around him were muffled beyond recognition. He tried to blink to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but for some reason, it was taking a moment. John tried to sit up and groaned when a sharp, splitting pain erupted across his forehead making him slump back into the mattress, “What the hell.” He murmured, his words slurred a bit. He winced, touching his forehead lightly before cracking his eyes open again. He blinked a few more times, gaining some sense of his surroundings, and realized he was not in his room. For the briefest of moments, John panicked because he didn’t know where he was until a noise outside the room alerted him. His heart rate slowed when he realized he was at home in 221B, but...he was in Sherlock’s room-

How did he-?

John bolted upright, which was a huge mistake because it had him doubling over seconds later with nausea rolling like waves in his stomach. He knew he would vomit at any moment and reached for the bedside trashcan near the nightstand before emptying the contents of his stomach into it. He groaned again, feeling like absolute hell. 

The door flew open to the room; warm light flooded the entrance to the bedroom and backlit the person standing there. 

“You’re awake.” It was a statement made by the voice of the person John never thought he would hear from again. He lifted his head up from the trash can, a wave of dizziness following him with the motion, and blinked deliriously at the person. “How are you feeling, John?” The figure asked. 

“A bit not good.” He murmured as another wave of nausea accompanied him. He groaned. The figure stood stiffly in the doorway as if unsure of what to do. 

“You collapsed earlier-” 

“I, what-?” John tried to push down nausea and it subsided for a moment. This is what Destiny must have meant by being ‘time-sick.’ He certainly did not enjoy it, that’s for sure. The figure reached over and switched on the lamp next to the bedside. John squinted at its light and then at the figure. John’s eyes widened. “Sherlock.” 

He was there. Right in front of him. John couldn’t believe his eyes. He almost felt like he needed someone to pinch him just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. With the sickness subsiding for a moment, he set the trashcan aside and went to stand, but dizziness hit him like a freight train and he nearly went toppling over again. However, Sherlock shot forward and caught him before he had a chance to hit the ground. 

“Careful...” Sherlock’s deep baritone voice vibrated through John as his face smushed up against Sherlock’s torso and against the familiar suit jacket he wore. The smell of Sherlock’s fancy soap hit his nose and John nearly felt like crying. His legs were weak, so Sherlock helped him sit on the edge of the bed and then crouched in front of him, locking eyes with him for a moment. John wasn’t sure, he honestly felt delirious at the moment, but he thought he saw a bit of worry and concern in those usual calculating eyes of Sherlock’s. 

“I can’t believe it-” John mumbled out, huffing out a disbelieving laugh.

“Can’t believe what?” Sherlock questioned, his brows knitting together.

John laughed a bit more, not caring that he probably looked deranged because  _ Sherlock  _ was  _ alive  _ and  _ here _ ! 

_ He was alive! _

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock was genuinely asking, but John was just staring at him in disbelief. Sherlock must have had no idea what was going on for once. 

“I’m- I honestly don’t know-” John rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head, and then with emotion swelling in his chest he hesitantly held his arms out, leaning forward, “Can I...” The words died on his lips as he gently wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, bringing the detective close and hugging him. John couldn’t stop the tears that pricked at his eyes. He buried his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. Sherlock felt very much alive and real. John gave him a light squeeze, coughing out a small huff of a laugh that held so much emotion in it. 

_ Oh, all the things he wanted to tell Sherlock. _

Sherlock and him rarely ever hugged during their time together in his timeline, but John vowed to never pass up a chance to try and show Sherlock how much he meant to him, even if  _ this  _ Sherlock had no idea about what was coming. This was their second chance. This was John’s second chance to fix everything. To save Sherlock and to say the things he always wanted to say but never did. 

John dipped his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder; the detective frozen on the spot where he was crouched in front of John. 

“You’re running a fever, John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded soft yet strained as if he was having a hard time processing what was happening. 

John reluctantly released Sherlock from the hug and pulled back, putting his hand to his eyes to cover the tears there that were threatening to fall. Sherlock stood up stiffly. Unsure and awkward. 

“Rest.” Sherlock murmured as John slowly let himself fall back onto the mattress, his eyelids were getting heavy and his head was spinning rather unpleasantly. Sherlock started for the door and when he was halfway out, about to shut it close, John called out, weakly, saying, “You were wrong for once, Sherlock.” 

“About what?” 

But John didn’t respond. 

Sherlock paused by the door and gave John an odd look. “I’ll be back with a cold compress.” He left the door cracked open. John felt a tear slide down his cheek as he let his eyes slip shut. He was home. He was with Sherlock again. Sherlock was home and  _ alive _ . 

When Sherlock returned with the said cold compress, John was fast asleep already. Sherlock stood at the door for a moment, staring at the figure in his bed with curiosity. John must have caught something while at work or while they were on their last case is what Sherlock was assuming. He had no idea what the doctor was on about, probably just delirious sick-talking, but- what was he wrong about? He wondered with interest as he placed the cold, wet compress on John’s forehead to help combat the mild fever he was running. John didn’t even stir. Sherlock switched off the lamp, letting darkness wash over the room, aside from the sliver of light that peeked in from the cracked door. John had always been an interesting puzzle to Sherlock and it fascinated him that he still had yet to crack it, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Sherlock let a small smile quirk his lips and exited the room, leaving the door cracked just in case John would need him. 

* * *

When John woke for the third time, his mind was much clearer and the dizziness had completely faded. There was light peeking through the closed curtains, telling him it was daytime. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. Panicking for a second, John jolted upright, causing something to fall from his forehead, and pulled his sleeve back revealing the watch there with the white glowing numbers on his wrist. 

**_212:22:15:32_ **

“A day and a couple of hours.” He murmured in disbelief. He wasted an entire day. Damn time-sickness. John frowned at the now dry compress that fell off his head and set it aside. He then threw the comforter off himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed, realizing his shoes had been removed and set aside. He also noted that he was wearing the same clothes he had been when he time jumped. John looked to the cracked door, noticing the lights on in the short hallway. There was a bustle of London traffic outside, so he realized it must have probably been midday already. John opened the door and peeked around. He didn’t see Sherlock, but he heard rustling in the kitchen. He padded over and snuck a glance around the corner. 

John’s heart raced at the sight before him. Sherlock was standing, tall and slim in his usual black suit and white button-up, peering at some unusually colored liquid in a beaker. His back was to John and he noticed Sherlock wearing gloves and eye protection. For a moment, John let himself stare at his flatmate. The very person he had lost six months ago in his timeline. That dreadful day seemed so far away now. John’s heart lightened at the thought and he finally stepped into the kitchen, feeling brave enough to face the man he thought he would never see again until he left this world himself. John cleared his throat, and the detective before him seemingly jumped out of his skin, nearly dropping the beaker he held in his hands. 

John resisted a chuckle, “Good morning...afternoon?” He wasn’t entirely sure what time it was. His watch didn’t exactly tell him the correct time.

“John.” Sherlock turned to face him, eyes beaming behind the eye protection, “You seem well.”

“Yeah. I feel much better, actually.” He tried to say casually. John knew Sherlock was deducing him at that very moment, but he simply sat at the table, glancing over the experiment there with a small smile. He’s sure he looked like a mess.

When the silence seemed to stretch between them in the small space of the kitchen, John looked to Sherlock to find a strange expression there. 

“What?” 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You did collapse yesterday.” 

“Fine. Yes. I’m good.” John gave him a reassuring smile, “I think I just caught a weird bug at work or something. Exhausted myself maybe…” He trailed off, not really able to come up with a plausible excuse for collapsing the day prior. It’d been because of the time-sickness, but he couldn’t exactly say that. 

Sherlock hummed and returned to his beakers, hovering over the sink as he poured one beaker of liquid into another to see their reaction.

Taking advantage of not having Sherlock’s keen stare locked onto him, John glanced around the flat. Everything was mostly the same from his timeline even after Sherlock’s death. John’s heart swelled with...happiness? He wasn’t sure, but he felt giddy. 

“Hungry? I feel like going out.” He spoke suddenly, catching Sherlock off guard once again. The detective seemed oddly jumpy today. John didn’t remember this day in particular from his own timeline. He’s sure he probably yelled at Sherlock for the experiment laid out on the table currently, but at this point in time, John couldn’t care less if Sherlock ruined the table and kitchen with ghastly experiments. If it meant that Sherlock was alive and well, John would take experiments and human body parts being in their fridge any day of the week. 

“Hm. I suppose so.” 

“I’m craving that Chinese place down the road.” John thought about the last time he had visited that place. It had definitely been after a case, he was sure of it. John pulled the sleeve of his shirt down a little, the white glowing numbers on the watch there giving him a slightly anxious feeling. He was here for a reason. He had to remember that. John glanced at Sherlock as he seemed to be finishing up his experiment.

_ To save you. _ He thought. 

“You’re thinking very loudly.” Sherlock murmured, holding a vial up at eye level, not looking at John. 

_ Shit _ . 

“I am?” 

At that, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing at John sitting peacefully at their kitchen table. John resisted the urge to squirm under his penetrating stare. Sherlock seemed to leave it alone as he set the vials down in a plastic holder and ripped the gloves and eye protection off.

“Ready?” John questioned, standing from his chair at the table. Sherlock nodded curtly, walking off to snatch up his signature coat. John swallowed thickly at seeing his flatmate in his usual attire. He thought he would never see the sight again. 

_ Get a hold of yourself. You were a soldier. Stop being so emotional. _ John told himself as he put on his shoes and followed Sherlock down the steps of 221B and out the door where they hailed for a cab. 

Sitting in the warm cab, John was hit with a surreal feeling. He knew he would probably be experiencing that quite a bit, but he still couldn’t believe that he had traveled back in time. His head spun for a minute and he closed his eyes, leveling his breathing. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, much to John’s relief. 

It wasn’t long before they arrived at their desired destination and both exited the cab and entered the restaurant. Sherlock knew the owners, so they were well received once inside. They got a spot by the large windows overlooking the streets of London. John took his coat off, along with Sherlock and the two sat. John already knew what he wanted to order, but he grabbed the menu anyway, if anything, to keep it as a distraction from staring at Sherlock with a dumbfounded expression. Sherlock’s sharp gaze was directed out the window and at the people passing by. The sky above seemed to cloud over, threatening rain. 

Once they ordered and John no longer had a menu to hide behind he sat back in the booth comfortably. He glanced toward the window, staring out at the people passing by. He thought about the variable and what it could possibly be. What could have caused Sherlock’s fate to be so drastically altered and why did it happen in the first place? 

John secretly wished he could ask the man _ \--the genius _ \--across from him, but knew it wouldn’t be the best idea. His friend would probably check him into a psych ward if he started spouting off about time travel and other oddities like meeting Destiny herself. John resisted a sigh when he suddenly noticed the piercing, deducting eyes on him. 

“Something is bothering you. Are you sure you’re not still feeling unwell?” 

John floundered for a second, “No. I’m alright, really. Just…a weird day yesterday, I suppose.” 

Sherlock hummed in agreement then said, “You’re quieter than usual.” 

“Am I?” 

Sherlock cocked his head slightly forward as if nodding, but still staring at John, who was struggling to keep his face neutral. John could see the glowing white numbers out of the corner of his eye and casually readjusted his sleeve again to hide the watch. 

_ Sherlock’s fate is in my hands. If I fail, he will die again.  _ The unpleasant thought was unprovoked but had John suddenly feeling uneasy. He knew he had heaps of time at the moment, but that time would slowly dwindle and if he couldn’t figure out the variable, what would he do? 

John pushed the thoughts away harshly. “Is it hot in here?” He asked, distractedly, when out of the corner of his eye and out the window, something caught his attention. He snapped his eyes toward the window, scanning the people passing by and the cars zooming. He thought he saw something, but...what? 

An incredibly uneasy feeling washed over John and he wasn’t sure what was causing it. Was it the time-sickness again? Anxiety? He couldn’t be sure, but if it was the time-sickness, he was foolish to think it would be over in just a day's time. Across the street, between a couple of buildings in the alleyway, the shadows moved strangely. John squinted at it, trying to make sense of what the hell was over there, lurking in the shadows. It was probably a homeless man or some kids playing, but- 

“John? John?” Sherlock’s snapping fingers brought him back and away from whatever that alleyway held and he blinked as if coming out of a trance. 

“What?” 

“I was just telling you about what Mycroft texted me about yesterday. The nerve he has. I ignored it, of course. The man is practically the British government, you’d think he’d be able to figure things out on his own without involving me.” Sherlocked scowled at the thought of his older brother.

“Oh. Right.” John couldn’t recall a single thing about what Sherlock was talking about. This day had happened so far back in his timeline, there was no way he would remember every detail. John swallowed, taking another glance out the window at the alleyway, but there was nothing strange about it this time. Just normal shadows. Had he imagined it? Did his eyes play a trick on him? Another side effect of time travel? There was no way to be sure.

At the mention of Mycroft, John thought about how back in his own timeline the older Holmes brother and he had strangely become quite good friends after Sherlock’s death. John realized he never really knew how Mycroft felt about seeing the death of his younger brother in the paper. He wondered if it had affected Mycroft as badly as it did him. He imagined so, but John couldn’t picture the stoic brother weeping. He didn’t even cry at the funeral, John recalled. John also realized, suddenly, that he wouldn’t have the same relationship with Mycroft or Greg or anyone else like he did in his own timeline. It would all be changed and reverted back to how it’d been before. He briefly deflated at the thought, but soon shook it off because he’d rather have the man sitting across from him alive than mourn the loss of a few months of friendship that was kindled out of loss, death, and trauma. 

He took in a shaky breath just as their food arrived. The sight of the food, strangely enough, had John feeling the opposite of hungry. 

“You’re not feeling well,” Sherlock observed.

“Sherlock, I’m fine. How many times do I have to tell you? Since when are you so concerned anyway?” It came out sounding a little harsher than he meant it, and he immediately regretted his choice of words, but Sherlock didn’t seem affected by them anyway.

“Healthy individuals don’t just collapse for no reason.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. 

“I’m just...a little tired is all.” John’s shoulders sagged as he gave into Sherlock, “I thought I was feeling better, but now that we’re out...it kind of hit me a bit. I suppose I should rest a bit more.” 

Sherlock nodded, understanding.

“Would you mind if we head back?” John asked, glancing nervously toward the alleyway once again. Sherlock noticed his sight trained across the street and followed his gaze, but said nothing. 

“Of course. I need my doctor in tip-top shape if we’re gonna solve any cases anytime soon.” 

John couldn’t help but smile at that. The nervous jitter that entered his system seemed to settle for a moment and he pushed his plate away from himself as Sherlock waved the waiter down to get to-go containers. 

When the two arrived back at Baker Street, the strange feeling that had overcome John at the restaurant had slowly faded, leaving dull exhaustion in its place. He told himself it was the time-sickness. Hell, it  _ must  _ have been. He was in a completely different timeline, according to Destiny. However, he couldn’t be sure. He tried to get a hold of himself. He probably needed a bit more rest, so he shed his coat and took a seat on the brown couch, sinking into the cushions. Sherlock beelined toward his experiment again and John let him be. His mind felt like it was swimming anyway. John could also feel the throbbing of a headache coming on. He groaned quietly and sat back against the couch. 

He ended up switching the telly on and turned it to a random movie, not really intending to watch it, but more for the background noise rather than sitting in the quietness of the flat. John had enough days in his own timeline from being in a quiet and empty flat. However, he did turn the volume down so as not to disturb Sherlock from his experiment, which he was currently getting back into much like how John had seen him earlier with the eye protection and gloves. Sherlock did shed his Belstaff coat, letting it hang by the door. 

John let his eyes linger on the coat, swaying slightly after being hung, and then on Sherlock, whose back was to him and facing the kitchen sink. Emotion welled up within him and he resisted the lump that threatened to form in his throat. He became such an emotional man after Sherlock’s death. Even now, John felt like crying at the sight of Sherlock, of his best friend standing there messing with his funny experiments that often ended up smelling disgusting or harming the kitchen table in one way or another. 

The white numbers on his watch caught his attention again and he let a small sigh escape him. He couldn’t help the feeling of fear that plagued him. He was afraid of failing. Afraid of losing Sherlock all over again. He didn’t think he could bear to go through that for the second time if he didn't figure out how to save him. 

John came out of his thoughts to find Sherlock, still standing in the kitchen, staring at him from across the way. A peculiar expression graced his sharp features. John tore his eyes away, looking toward the window, a flush of embarrassment turning his cheeks pink. He needed to get a hold of himself. Sherlock was...a  _ genius _ ...and that was putting it mildly and he  _ knew  _ that John was acting strange. How was he supposed to act like himself though? John saw the very man standing in the kitchen before him jump from a roof and saw his head meet with the pavement and the  _ blood- _

John resisted a shudder at the memory of feeling Sherlock’s blood gushing from his head as he tried to hold his body the moment after he jumped. 

He’d seen many good men die in war. He held so many men on the battlefield, comforting them in their last living moments on this earth, but holding Sherlock’s body at that moment had been drastically different. It was traumatizing and that seemed to be putting it mildly. 

When John glanced back at him, Sherlock was meddling with his experiment once more. He tried to relax a little and turned his attention on the telly even though he had no intention of following the plot of the movie playing. 

It wasn’t long before he felt himself drifting into a slight snooze. The couch was comfy and the noises of Sherlock clinking beakers and vials together was oddly soothing to hear. His head was also humming with a slight buzz. 

“So what did I get wrong?” 

Sherlock’s deep voice startled John out of his lulling sleep causing him to jump at the sound and snap his eyes open.

“I’m sorry?” 

“Yesterday, you told me I was wrong for once.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him but had his eyes focused intently on a beaker with blue liquid inside it. 

“Oh, um…” John trailed off, “I don’t know. I was pretty out of it.” John knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about. He’d imagined Sherlock saying that he couldn’t bring people back from the dead and he commented that he hoped Sherlock would be wrong for once in his life before he had made the call to Destiny. John silently cursed himself for even saying such things when he was so delirious from time-traveling yesterday. 

Sherlock didn’t respond but merely huffed as if not satisfied with the answer.

Much to John’s relief, Sherlock seemed to drop the subject almost immediately. Weirdly enough, the rest of the day continued on uneventfully. 

Later after the sun dipped low on the horizon of the London skyline, 221B Baker Street settled in for the night. It was nearing eleven pm when Sherlock pulled off his gloves and eye protection. John didn’t get much of a chance to speak with his flatmate, who’d been knee-deep in thought and also elbow-deep in chemicals. While he would’ve enjoyed talking to Sherlock again, John was still feeling the effects of time traveling. It was definitely taking a larger toll on his body than he initially thought. Destiny hadn’t been lying when she said time traveling would exhaust him. Even after mostly resting the entire day, John still felt like he could sleep another eight or more hours, which he was looking forward to doing, but he had sat at the couch, watching telly, falling in and out of napping until Sherlock taking his gloves and eye protection off caught his attention.

“Finishing up finally?” 

“Hm. Mostly.” Came Sherlock’s dull reply. He seemed mildly annoyed, but John couldn’t be sure. 

John hoisted himself up from the couch and walked over to the experiment laid out across the kitchen table. He looked at it with interest, trying to understand what Sherlock was doing. He gave up and asked, “What’s got you so interested?” 

“Not much. Just testing the different chemical effects on human blood.” 

“Anything to tell?” 

Sherlock’s brow knit as he stared at John, “I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

John nodded, not really understanding how Sherlock understood any of that type of stuff. He was a doctor, so he understood basic biology and such, but Sherlock’s knowledge of chemistry and other things just blew him away at times. He never thought he would meet anyone quite as  _ extraordinary  _ as the man next to him. Not realizing he’d gone quiet with a fond look in his eyes, John was caught off guard when Sherlock suspiciously asked, “Since when have you been interested in my experiments?” 

John seemed to flounder for the second or possibly third time that day and smiled sheepishly, “Who’s to say I haven’t always been interested?” 

Sherlock shrugged as he neatly organized his beakers by color. Seeming satisfied, he brushed past John and stretched his arms above his head, stifling a yawn. John’s eyes followed the length of Sherlock’s body and up to the tips of his fingers when a movement by the window caught his eye. When John’s eyes snapped to it, the shadows shuddered, and then it was gone as if he imagined it. A strange feeling fleeted over him and, much like the shadows, it was gone in an instant. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice brought him out of the trance-like state once again. His eyes darted to the detective, who’s brow was creased and staring at him with another deducting look. John blinked several times. 

“Yeah?” 

“You should go to bed.” 

“R-right, yes.” John broke their eye contact and glanced down, “I’ll see you in the morning, Sherlock.” 

He shuffled past Sherlock and toward his bedroom up the stairs. Once in his room, John shut the door and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. He was sure Sherlock thought something was wrong with him. Maybe he could pass it off by saying he just wasn’t feeling good or that he was indeed sick. Maybe once he was accustomed to Sherlock’s presence again and being back in the past he will start to feel and act like himself once again? John shook his head at his own foolishness. He wasn’t the same John Watson that this timeline’s Sherlock knew. At least he didn’t feel like the same John Watson. He’d gone through so much more than this John Watson had yet to go through, which will actually be him reliving all those times.

John’s head spun and he wanted to do nothing more than lay down and sleep once again. So, he did just that. He switched the lights off in the room, laid himself down on the familiar bedding, and let his eyes drift shut. In the back of his mind, he wondered when he would see Destiny again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it and I'll hopefully have chapter 4 up in no time.


End file.
